If Only You Were More Like Me...Parts I and II

This should probably be two separate posts, but I don't feel like splitting it up.

Whatever, I do what I want.

Now now, don't get all riled up. I'm not turning into some self-involved little pain-in-the-rear, though I have my moments. This is really just a post to say: I have a hard time understanding others when they don't think or act the way I do. Not that I expect them to act exactly the way I do, variety is the spice of life. It's just...jeeze the more I type the more I sound like a self-involved pain-in-the-rear. I guess my real problem is understanding motivation, particularly motivation behind irresponsible or malicious actions.

Part I: Responsibility

I thanked my mom tonight, for raising me to understand responsibility and respect.

I was never the kid to call adults by their first names (see notes: 1). My mom and dad are still Mr. & Mrs. B to all my friends. It was months before I was comfortable calling M's parents by their first names, even though that was how they were introduced to me. This is a very specific example--and now that I, too, am an adult (shudder), it's less of an issue--but...where was I going with this? I got distracted with the I'm-an-adult concept.

Oh yes, even though using titles is a fairly specific practice, it's a good example of how I was raised. Respect for elders and higher-ups, respect for equals, respect for lessors and those more youthful, respect for self. I believe respect translates smoothly into responsibility. Being a responsible daughter, friend, employee, girlfriend, all trace back to showing respect for those people around me. Honestly, because the whole concept was basically ingrained in me since before I exited the womb, it comes pretty naturally. Which doesn't help when I try to comprehend others acting irresponsibly.

Part II: Malicious Intent

I also ranted to my mom for a while about bored individuals with malicious intent.

Because when I was clicking around this evening, I was faced with a Malware warning.

I did what any self-respecting-internet-addict-and-moderately-computer-literate individual would do. I freaked out and called my more computer literate little brother. Then my mom, since she had recently been through this very same problem.

One computer cleaner, one malware scanner, and one spyware scanner later, the problem is solved but I am mystified. I did absolutely nothing to the programmer who create this problem. Nor, I'd be willing to bet, did the vast majority of the 200+ million users who had this particular problem cleaned off their computers for free thanks to Malware Bytes (stats via malwarebytes.org). So why the heck would you try to ruin my computer? I can almost understand those programs that go in and steal your credit card numbers or the ransom-ware that's going around now, those guys are trying to make a buck, but just to go in and screw up my totally insignificant files? I don't get it. Who is that intentionally hateful (see notes: 2)? Life is too short to spend it doing ugly hurtful things (see notes: 3). Mom defaulted to Bambi on this one; "If you can't say (or do) somethin' nice, don't say (or do) nothin' at all."

Notes:

1. I do not think calling adults by their first name as a child is pathway to disrespect or irresponsibility. It was simply the most illustrative example I could come up with.

2. Hateful is one of my favorite southern words. I use it all the time. It's the LBD of words, dress it up, dress it down, perfect for any occasion!

3. Also I've cooled down about the computer issue for two reasons. First, I fixed the problem fairly quickly and painlessly. Second, my brother reminded me that I come out on top. Worst case scenario, my computer is a little screwed up and IT has to fix it. But, I'm not living in my Mom's basement with the glow from my HP the only light my skin ever sees. So, you, malware villain, might win at hard drives, but I win at life. I'll take that trade off. (Just kidding, ha? Please don't hurt my pretty new HP again mr(s). mean virus (wo)man.)

Scott Hamilton is Practically My Neighbor (and Other Comments on the Olympics)

I am an Olympics junkie. If I could do nothing for two weeks but watch the Olympics, I would. Summer, Winter, it really doesn't matter to me. I like the sport of it all. I like the idea of the world coming together to compete in a friendly way. I like to watch the medal count. But, I follow the Olympics in my own quirky way. Because, let's face it, that's how I roll.

In no particular order, some of my thoughts on the Olympics at the half-way point:

I love to watch figure skating. If that makes me a typical girl, so be it. It is freaking amazing. I also love Scott Hamilton. He won his gold medal the year I was born. I'm pretty sure this gives us some kind of cosmic connection. (And I just found out he lives about 30 miles down the road. Cue stalker music.) However, listening to Scott Hamilton commentate on Olympic figure skating gives me anxious fits. He "OH!s" and "YIKES!s" and "AAARGGHH!s" and takes 5 minutes off my life with every single competitor.

Snowboarders are the only Olympians who fall, shrug their shoulders and say with their whole hearts, "It was awesome just being here and riding with these people." Where is this shockingly healthy perspective on a ::cough cough:: GAME coming from? Will the Chinese women & their 10 hour training days ruin it? I'm going with no. The best part of snowboarding, especially the half pipe, is that the person having the most fun, wins.

I don't understand the relationship between Lindsay Vonn (Alpine Skier) and her husband. I don't have to because the only reason I know who she is at all is that I'm watching her ski. Please, Bob Costas, stop confusing me with their coaching/marriage relationship. It's taxing and I'm trying to enjoy this.

I cannot, for the life of me, stop singing the Cool Runnings song. "Jamaica we have a bobsled team" over and over and over again. I either need; 1) a cure for this affliction or 2) to learn the rest of the words. They don't even have a bobsled team this year!

It's nnnnot righttttt that it has been warmer in VANCOUVER than here in Nashville this week. Not. Right. They want the snow and cold. I'm all too happy to give it up. Hey, Jack Frost, could you do something about this little problem? I feel that Canada would not be a comfortable place for me to live.

In review: Scott Hamilton gives me the nervous shakes but I still love him, Snowboarders are (insert surfer-lingo positive descriptor here), Lindsey Vonn is a fast skier, Jamaica only has 1 athlete at these Olympic games and he's a cross-skier, and I'm cold, dammit.

GO TEAM U.S.A.!

Oh yeah, and I've GOT to get my hands on one of those USA knit hats. I kind of love them. They can keep the weird puffy jackets though.

(photo credit: Ralph Lauren)

Musings on EBT: Round Two

(photo credit: amspartner.com)

So, I got my food stamps after all.

I have no idea how this happened. Today when I checked my mailbox there was my EBT card along with a letter telling me how much I qualified for and that it would be deposited in my account on the 10th of every month. I'm going to run with it.

I was pumped. Mostly because I was on my way to the grocery store at that very moment. I called M to tell him the awesome news. I called my mom. I texted my boss. "Woo-hoo!" I nearly exclaimed in a very-Vicki moment (Real Housewives of Orange County anyone?). But guess what? Anxiety about actually using the card was starting to creep in around the edges.

I have never tried to use food stamps before. All I knew was that they were only good for food (duh). The card looks like a credit card, with an American flag on the front with my name and card number. I tucked the card into my wallet and confidently* strode into my neighborhood Kroger. (*Read: slowly losing my nerve and questioning whether I would really use the card or not once I got to the register.)

I shopped, conscious of three very pressing things:

1. I don't want my purchases to look extravagant.

2. How weird will it look when I use my new EBT card and my reusable shopping bags?

3. What self-effacing joke can I make when I mess up trying to use this card for the first time?

Obviously I was fairly uncomfortable using the card, especially in the nice-neighborhood Kroger.

I shopped quickly & then spent 15 minutes sussing out the cashiers and picking a line with the least-judgmental-looking employee. Know which one I picked? The one with the new guy, who had to ask his trainer how to enter my card. He was quiet and subtle and called it an EBT card. She was loud and matter-of-fact and called them food stamps. He looked embarrassed for me. Fortunately, in that moment I was more worried that something wouldn't work than self-conscious about receiving government assistance. All-in-all I walked out with $39 in groceries. Nothing extravagant, enough to keep me for two weeks. It worked and it'll keep me from decimating my bank account trying to feed myself.

I knew this was going to be a "lessons learned" moment. Now, this is the poverty experience VISTA wanted me to have. Despite my anxiety over using the card at all, and my expectations that any who saw it would be judging me, I was proud of myself for one simple reason: I did not try to explain or defend myself. I did not blurt out, "I've never done this before--and I'm an AmeriCorps Member and just qualify because I'm living on a small stipend--did I mention I have a bachelors degree AND a masters degree--and...What's that? You don't care? I'm holding up the line?" Nope. I kept all this to myself and simply smiled at the green cashier while he fumbled to apologize for not knowing how to run my card--and maybe a little bit for his trainer's boldness. I made it through my first food stamps purchase and it wasn't that bad. Although, I'll be honest. I would rather have a job that keeps me from qualifying for food stamps and pay full price for my groceries. For the record: I'm probably not the only person who feels this way.

I'm also hoping they won't call me in three weeks and tell me I owe The Government $40 because I wasn't supposed to have the card in the first place.

Alabama Charm

How could I forget to post this picture?

Many thanks to M for getting the shot just in time as we flew by this billboard on the highway.

Do Moonpies Leave Bruises?

I went out of town over the weekend and I was struck by this question: What is it about free stuff? You know when you get home you're going to sit there thinking, "what the hell am I going to do with all this crap." But, in the moment all you can think is, "OH-MY-GAWD-GET-OUT-OF-MY-WAY-I-NEED-MORE-OF-THAT."

And that is how I ended up with all these beads:

Disclaimer: no nudity was required to earn these beads.

I would have had more, but I was injured early--suddenly and unexpectedly struck by something much more formidable than a question. You see, I foolishly assumed that the things thrown from family friendly Mardi Gras floats during a family friendly Mardi Gras parade would not be HARD or HEAVY. Which is why, when I was bombarded above the eye with something very very hard, it took a minute to register what had just happened. I turned to M's sister (who, unbeknownst to me, had caught said object) and said, "I don't know what just hit me, but it really hurt," just before doubling over holding my forehead. Then I momentarily dissolved into tears, because IT HURT GOSH DARN IT. And I may or may not have been half way through a bottle of wine.

Of course, I pulled it together, because that eight-year-old beside me was not going to get her sticky fingers on anything else thrown in our direction. Also, being generally accident prone, I know how to rebound. Later, M's great-aunt told me I'd been christened, while recounting her story of being knocked out cold by a full can of beer during said family friendly Mardi Gras parade a few decades earlier.

The weekend mini-vacation flew by. The gulf coast, and all of the awesome women in M's family, make for a whirlwind of a trip every time. Or a mild concussion may have blurred my memory. Luckily I have the following awesome (and adorable) pictures.

Spanish moss was always how I knew we were getting close to the beach as a kid. Even though I know (now) it's a horrible parasite, I still kind of love it.

This is the pier at the end of M's mom's street on Mobile Bay. Yeah, I'm prepping for my move to this awesome little town.

Sunset over Mobile Bay. It was cold and windy, but I'm a firm believer that a bad day at the beach beats a good day anywhere else.

My hair is attacking me.

Beautiful beach. My soul is soothed.

And then I returned to -40 degree weather (okay, 30s) and blizzard conditions (okay, 1-3 inches of snow). I'm going hunting for groundhog. Who's with me?

Don't Take Your Coach Bag When You Apply for Food Stamps

(my new least favorite place, photo credit: wkrn.com)

Two and a half months ago I began my year as an AmeriCorps VISTA, a Volunteer In Service To America. (If you're confused--think domestic PeaceCorps). I really planned on writing more about this experience, but to be honest, it's been fairly uneventful. Pretty much your run of the mill 40-hour-a-week job. I'm just not getting paid much.

Today was different.

A few weeks ago I met with the VISTA coordinator for my project who encouraged me to apply for food stamps. My living stipend doesn't count towards income, so I was told that I could receive $200 per month for groceries! Sign. Me. Up.

This morning I got up at 5, showered, got ready for work and drove to the local Department of Human Services which, of course, is in a sketchy part of town. I got there at 6 but they didn't open the doors until 6:30. There were already about 30 people in line. Oh yeah, it was freezing. And raining. And still dark.

The security guard unlocked the door a very much appreciated 5 minutes early. He had a spiel that included such comic gems as "hold on to your personal items, there are thieves among us, you know who you are," (ha) and, "welcome to your home for the next few hours" (ha).

I handed my appointment sheet to the guard at the front desk and walked into the waiting room where I sat and waited for my name to be called.

And waited.

7:15 am - Carried on a conversation with the nice family behind me, laughing with them over the antics of their 18 month old. This was the high point of the morning.

And waited.

8:00 am - Tried to avoid a conversation with the creepy 46 year old man (he told me his age) who asked me how old I was, my first name, and told me he'd like to have another child someday. I'm pretty sure he was a sex offender.

AND WAITED.

8:30 am - Avoided eye contact with the homeless men who were probably staring at the wall behind me.

8:40 am - Texted my boss to let her know I was probably going to be late.

8:45 am - Social worker called my name.

If you're keeping score (and I was) at this point I had been at DHS for 2 hours and 45 minutes.

It took the social worker about 8 minutes to figure out that I have too many "resources," (read: money in my bank account that I wasn't committing FRAUD by lying about, and a paid-for 2004 Corolla) to qualify for food stamps.

In the words of the Unsinkable Blair -- Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot.

If the social worker hadn't been so darn frank & sympathetic, I would have come across the desk. "So," I said to her, "Spend it all, sell the car, and come back?" "Yep," she replied, doing that slow head nod that means: "I know this is bullshit. At least you don't have to give food stamps to 31 pregnant 19 year olds and 8 drug addicts over the next 8 hours like I do."

As I walked out of DHS, passing the crack-fiends and meth-heads, I couldn't do anything but laugh. And process.

And here's what I decided to take away from this completely ludicrous morning, in bullet form (because this is a long story already):

• I fully understand why people who have resources available to them do not always seek them out. If you've walked into DHS to seek help to keep yourself from becoming destitute because, HELLO, you're a little bit financially responsible, and you are told to come back when you're destitute, you don't come back. It is HUMILIATING to be sitting in that office with a full time job, dressed for work, and feel 300 (at least) pairs of eyes on you wondering what you're doing there with them. Who wants to go through that twice?

• I have no idea what people do when they don't have understanding bosses like mine. Or, in more extreme cases, when they don't speak the same language as their boss. I got to work at 9:30. I'm supposed to be there at 9. I didn't have to wait for the bus, I could drive myself to work in my personal vehicle. In any other situation, I would lose my job.

• Why in the H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks is it okay for these people who are CLEARLY drug addicted, felons, committing fraud, whatever, to receive food stamps/medicaid/housing subsidies? I get that it has to be a tough process so the truly needy get help. But the truth as I saw it was a process so convoluted and frustrating that the only people who have time to deal with it are those who DON'T HAVE A JOB. Not to mention (see second bullet) if you try to go through the process while you have a job, you'll probably lose it. Then you'll have to spend every penny you have in savings before you're eligible for assistance. And then (see first bullet) if you have one ounce of pride, you try anything to find another way--any other way--to make ends meet.

M, self proclaimed libertarian that he is, listened to my whole rant on the way to work and said, "Yeah, babe. It's a self-perpetuating system. Once you get in, you never get out."

I tend to think of myself as a learned-liberal. Meaning, for the most part, I'm a social liberal living in a state with a lot of people who disagree with me. I've had to learn the best practices for speaking my mind. I'm proud of my feelings on the matter of the state bearing some responsibility for the basic needs of it's people. Generally, a whole-is-greater-than-the-sum-of-it's-parts perspective.

However, having seen it from the inside, I recognized a much more conservative turn in my thought process today. Granted, I'm coming from a place where I (one day soon) hope to be on the able-to-give end of the economic spectrum. I'm still working through this morning's events (jeeze, at 7 pm it feels like days ago). The truth is, I'm not destitute-yet, and I can ask my Dad for money if I need it. But, I sat under a microscope (not to mention in a cesspool) for HOURS today and have nothing to show for it. Disappointing, disheartening, and (aha!) enlightening.

The VISTA poverty experience I'm supposed to be having. However, I'm pretty sure I wasn't supposed to walk away from it flip flopping on my political leanings.

Barbara Ehrenreich, I'm channeling you, but I'm living somewhere between poverty and the millions you made off this book. Can you hear my brain turning this one over and over and over? Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.